


Chicken Soup for the Soul

by orphan_account



Category: Transformers (Bay Movies), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: AoE Houndrift are my babies, Established Relationship, Houndrift, Houndrift livessss, Human AU, Humanized, I love them so much, M/M, assasin!Hound, my child ship, racer!Drift
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 07:02:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,913
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5617684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drift is sick when Hunter comes back from a mission. Hunter dotes on his bae.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chicken Soup for the Soul

If there was one thing Hunter hated more than being sick himself, it was watching those around him get sick. He wasn’t home often enough to provide the care he felt they deserved, and while he honestly wanted to drop everything and dote on them until they got better, he had learned that he couldn’t always run away from responsibilities.

He could still vaguely remember missing a few days of school when Felicity, his younger sister, had gotten sick. Neither his parents nor his principal had been happy with him, but Felicity was relieved to once again have her big brother’s attention on her, and that was all that mattered to him.

Fast forward roughly 30 years, and he was debating pulling a similar stunt. Though his boss would not be as forgiving as his parents had been, sending him to his room after dinner without dessert for a week because of the truancy records. This was a literal life and death matter, but –

“Hound?” That single, sleepy, raspy whine made him look back through the doorway, his heart clenching as he listened to the pitiful sound his boyfriend made. He holds his breath, his gaze darting over the alarm clock on the bedside table, reading 3:34 AM in the pulsing letters.

His flight was at 5. He needed to get going.

He creeps closer, acutely aware of the knives and guns already hidden and packed on his person, his hands reaching forward to brace himself on the side of the bed. Drift’s blue eyes were hazy, a combination of sickness and exhaustion blurring the normally vibrant hues. A gentle touch moved some stray hairs from his face, a knuckle tracing down his cheek.

“Yeah, Drift. I have to get goin’ now; flight leaves in an hour ‘nd a half.” He feels the effort the former geisha was making to try and wake up, to enjoy what little time they had left, but he shushes him, pushing him back down to the bed with little effort. “I’ll go fast, promise. ‘nd I’m only in Russia, so I’m not that far away. It’ll be quick.” So he hoped; the Soviets never made anything easy.

The pouty whine was interrupted by a hacking cough, stuffed sniffles following. Hunter could swear his heart was breaking. Pressing a quick kiss to Drift’s forehead – noting the slightly warmer temperature – he whispered “I love you” before ducking out of their bedroom.

Drift collapsed back into his pillows and blankets, listening for the sound of the front door opening and closing, the American’s truck pulling out afterwards. He sighed, trying to find an angle to lay that would allow him to breathe.

He was alone, again.

* * *

Hunter returned 3 days later, exhausted and reeking of vodka. It wasn’t his fault that the Russians felt the need to discuss every political change around a bar of some sort. But it was the sleepless nights and quiet murders that weighed on him and prompted him to drink.

Once home, he immediately went to the shower, his weaponry already hidden once more, ensuring Drift of plausible deniability should something happen to him. Washing the blood, sweat, and booze down the drain, he abruptly switched the water to cold, to shock him awake. It worked, the frustrated hissing accompanied by a few shakes of his head, the water from his hair splashing against the tile of the shower.

Making his way into the bedroom, his towel around his waist, he sighed at what he saw.

Drift was in, essentially, the same position he had been in when Hunter had left; asleep, curled up on his side, and clutching Hunter’s pillow like a lifeline. His hair was wet, smelling of the cherry blossom shampoo he was partial to, so Hunter wasn’t worried about him dehydrating himself by sweating. Clearly he was feeling a little better if he had been able to drag himself to the shower, but that didn’t mean much in this context. Drift was strong; he could feel like shit and still look like he was doing fine.

Sighing, the American throws on a pair of sweatpants and begins to clean up the multitude of tissues scattered around the bed, floor, and bedside table. With that finished, he wanders into the kitchen, grabbing some wipes and cleaning up the table, before leaving a glass of water for Drift when he eventually woke up.

The kitchen drew another sigh from the elder man. Looking around, it was clear no one had been in it since he had left; the bread hadn’t been touched, nor the fridge even opened. (He would know, he had shoved the mustard back in in a way that if anyone opened the door, it would fall out. Drift would have put it back in its proper place on the door if he had been up and rummaging around.)

Concerned his boyfriend hadn’t eaten for the better part of three days, Hunter cracks a window, letting in the late fall air into the house, before settling into the groove of cooking. Honestly, it would be nice to have a homemade meal for once, rather than airplane food and potentially poisoned hotel cuisine.

* * *

A few hours later, and Hunter had still not left the kitchen. Muscled and tattooed arms were now dusted with flour, his knuckles white from a combination of kneading and the coating of flour on them. The kitchen floor was nearly as much of a mess, and though the American did not know it, Miko gazed down from where she had been dozing atop the fridge with a slight huff of indignation.

How was she supposed to get out now, if the big scared one was in the way of the exit? She settled in for the long haul, her paws tucked under her as she formed a little content cat loaf on top of the fridge.

In the bedroom, unbeknownst to both cat and man, Drift cracked his back as he awoke with a stretch that made his muscles sing, before the full body ache set in again. It always sucked getting sick, as he never really got lightly hit with anything; he either didn’t get sick, or he was terribly ill.

Reaching over sleepily, trying to find more tissues to clear his nose, he brushed the water glass sitting stationary on the bedside table. His fingertips actually managed to dip into the cool liquid, and he jumped back, now wide awake. The first thing that was on his mind was an intruder, but what kind of an intruder left water and ibuprofen on a bedside table for a clearly ailing man, _and_ cleaned up the tissues that had previously covered every conceivable surface?

The dark green and tattered suitcase standing in the corner answered everything.

The Japanese man stood out of bed, before sitting back down, a hand pressed to his forehead as his headache started up again. Those ibuprofen looked really good, and he downed them both, before cocooning himself in Hunter’s sweatshirt and shuffling out to the rest of the house to confront his boyfriend.

“Hound?” Really, it was kind of pathetic, the way he shuffled around the corner, his arms not even reaching the end of the sleeves of Hunter’s sweatshirt, the grey sleeves flopping at his sides.

“Who else would be in the kitchen?” the American replied, flashing a smile to the clearly still sick individual.

He washes his hands and forearms off in the sink, before taking off his apron and hanging it on the hook. He still wasn’t wearing a shirt, but the way Drift lifted his arms for affection made him kind of glad that he wasn’t. Picking up the other man was easy, and he tucks him against his chest, kissing his temple gently.

“I don’t know, you could have been a thief.”

“A thief that would ignore the 1.5 million USD car you have in the garage? Some thief I would be.”

“Hound…stealing is a part of your job, is it not?”

A warm chuckle was the only answer Drift received, before he was shifted back to sit at the kitchen table. “Maybe – but another part of my job, the _fun_ part, is makin’ sure that ya don’t exhaust yerself while ‘m gone. ‘Nd with that comes makin’ sure that yer takin’ care of yerself while I’m gone.”

Now he was back in the kitchen, opening the flavorful crockpot and stirring the contents with a ladle, before scooping whatever it was into a bowl. “Normally yer pretty good at it, if not really hyper when I get back.”

That got him a blush and shy look away, which only prompted more well intended laughter from the assassin.

“But this time, I come back ta the kitchen not even touched, nor the bedroom cleaned – not even in yer nervous energy kinda way.” He brings out a mug of tea as well as the handmade soup he had been slaving over for a few hours now. It honestly was a hybrid that he remembered from his childhood – chicken noodle soup, but with the noodles replaced with dumplings, the kind used for chicken and dumplings.

If he had more time, he would have gone out for alphabet soup noodles, but he missed being home, and didn’t feel the need to go out for more things than they already had.

“’nd that means that I hafta take care a ya.” After he sets the food down, he crouches besides Drift’s chair, looking decidedly dog like as he awaits Drift’s reaction. He hadn’t told the other man much of his childhood in the way of fond memories, so he didn’t know the source of such a dish, but it was clear it meant a lot to him in the way he had carefully ladled it into the bowl, making sure none of it spilled.

Drift, taken somewhat aback by the kind gesture, smiles kindly at the elder man. “Yes, I suppose it does. I’ve missed you, very much. This was very nice to wake up to.” Carefully, not wanting to get the other man sick, he kisses Hunter’s forehead in appreciation. “Normally I would do a little more, but…”

“But yer sicker than a dog, love. Get on healin’ then ya can show me how much ya appreciate it,” he replies, kissing Drift’s cheek affectionately. “Promise. Want me ta eat with ya?”

“Yes, please,” the smaller man whispers, biting his lower lip as he turned his attention to his tea.

Hunter chuckles and stands, walking back into the kitchen to get his own meal.

As Drift began to eat the rather unorthodox soup, he felt his headache begin to lift, as well as the ever present worry that one day, his American may not come home. Three days seemed like an eternity when he was this sick, but now that he was feeling just a smidgen better, he realized that Hunter really had tried to get back to him sooner. And it was oh so nice to have him back home.

A shriek from the kitchen made him jump a bit, almost dropping his spoonful of soup, before he heard, “FREAKIN’ cat’s just FALLIN’ from the DAMN SKY,” followed by Miko trotting out of the kitchen, leaving floured paw prints in her wake.

 _Ah, yes. Very nice to have him back,_ Drift thought, rolling his eyes as he continued his meal. At least all was back to normal; for now.

**Author's Note:**

> Lovely babies, aren't they? Hunter just doesn't like cats, lmao.


End file.
